


Captive Audience

by Sed



Series: Lionfang Week 2020 [1]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Age Difference, M/M, Masturbation, Prison, Size Difference, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:01:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25373575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sed/pseuds/Sed
Summary: Lionfang Week Day 1 - FascinationIf the human truly wished to observe his captive, he would see his fill and then some.
Relationships: Varok Saurfang/Anduin Wrynn
Series: Lionfang Week 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1837471
Comments: 13
Kudos: 49
Collections: Lionfang Prompt Week





	Captive Audience

**Author's Note:**

> It's Lionfang Week! Let's start off with a bang, yeah?

The king had come to his cell nearly every day since his capture. He never came at the same time, and he did not stay for long. His visits seemed to follow no schedule or set of rules, personal or otherwise, that Saurfang could detect. He merely stood outside the bars and watched, looking silently upon his prisoner as though merely contemplating him. Studying him. Over time, Saurfang had begun to suspect that the young human might have come because he had something he wished to say. He simply lacked the will, or the courage, to say it.

But the days went on, and the visits remained nothing more than a silent staring match between enemies. Despite the purpose that burned within their depths, Saurfang could detect no malice in the blue eyes that regarded him so keenly. Anduin Wrynn did not seem to hate him, nor disdain or even pity him. He did not look down his nose and sneer, or gloat over his victory. He only stood there silently, watching. And then, once he had confirmed or satisfied whatever it was that had brought him down into the dark depths of the Stockade, he left.

Over time, the visits began to rub at Saurfang’s nerves, scraping them like dry desert sand. He had been in Stormwind for what he estimated to be just over six weeks, and in that time, Anduin Wrynn had not spoken a single word to him. Yet his presence made the walls of Saurfang’s cell feel smaller and smaller with each passing day. The silent observation made him feel like a caged animal, there for the amusement of a bored little king, placidly waiting for the day death or madness would finally come to claim him.

He tried to discourage the visits. First, by hurling cruel epithets and coarse words at the boy, and when that proved insufficient, he graduated to hurling the furnishings of his cell. But Anduin Wrynn faced it all with the same unwavering calm, regardless of what it was Saurfang threw at him. No amount of snorting, snarling, or vile words seemed able to shake the young king.

Anger had failed him, and so Saurfang turned to apathy. When he heard the clank and scrape of footsteps upon the stone beyond his cell, he made himself comfortable in his bed, and feigned sleep. He would lay still as a statue until the king left again, but always he returned, and always Saurfang could feel the eyes upon his back as though they burned through his skin. It accomplished little but to make his teeth ache as he ground them together in an effort to keep himself still.

His last resort was to simply pretend as though nothing out of the ordinary was happening. That the visits—a tactic he was beginning to suspect had been intended to unsettle him, perhaps even convince him to share some secrets he had not yet revealed—were no longer of any concern. He ate his food, tidied his cell, and kept his body and mind fit all under the watchful gaze of his captor.

Still, Anduin Wrynn kept coming, and nine weeks after his imprisonment in the Stormwind Stockade, Saurfang had finally had enough. He made a decision: if the human truly wished to observe his captive, he would see his fill and then some.

  
He heard the footsteps in the corridor, but did not move. In anticipation of the king’s arrival, Saurfang had sat himself upon the wooden cot in the center of the cell, facing the metal bars where he knew the young human would stand and observe him. As he waited, he shifted the front panel of his tabard out of the way, and began slowly pulling at the ties of his leather pants.

Anduin Wrynn appeared before him, as he always did, standing in silence on the other side of the cell door.

Saurfang bit back on the smirk that tugged at his lips as he reached within his pants and pulled out the half-hard length of his cock, scooping his balls into his palm along with it. He lifted his gaze to Anduin’s, finding the king’s eyes were wide. It was the first real change in his demeanor since the visits had started, yet he did not move away, or avert his gaze.

Giving himself a tug, Saurfang began to slowly, lazily encourage his cock to fill and harden. He stroked it gently at first, simply enjoying the touch of his own hand; the friction of his palm upon the flesh that he had neglected for so long, and the way it warmed him. A groan crawled its way up out of his chest, and he spread his legs on the cot. The first warm touch of slick upon his fingers, slipping over his knuckles, made his breath catch. He opened his eyes and looked at the king.

Anduin was still watching him, but all the cold regard in the depths of his eyes had turned to _heat_. The sight of it was almost enough to make Saurfang falter in his own resolve, but he kept going. Kept stroking himself to the beat of his own pleasure as it built in his loins. He observed the young king, not as a captor, but as the one now held captive by the sight before him. Anduin’s eyes were dark and glassy, and a deep blush stained his pale cheeks. The soft, pink lips that had spoken such bold words in Lordaeron were slightly parted now, and the rise and fall of his chest came quickly.

Unexpectedly, the evidence of Anduin Wrynn’s arousal only fueled his own, and Saurfang tightened his grip, moving his hand a little faster than before. His breath quickened, panting bursts of steam into the cool air of the cell. He could not make himself look away from the human king standing before him.

A growl escaped him when Anduin moved close enough to grasp the bars. For one wild moment, Saurfang contemplated standing up and moving to the other side of the metal door. He imagined what might happen if he thrust his cock between the bars, where the young king could touch it—or kneel, and take it into his mouth. A part of him wanted to ask Anduin if that was what he wanted. If he had come down to the cell seeking not the knowledge of his enemy, but the _taste_ of him. The weight on his tongue, or in his hand, hot and pulsing with arousal.

But he remained where he was, and he came like that, sitting in his cell in the lowest level of the Stormwind Stockade, watched by the king, a heavy spattering of come splashed across his fist and thighs. He had made a mess of himself, but the fading buzz of his climax left him with little room to feel shame. Not yet.

That came when he looked up again, and found Anduin had averted his eyes at last.

The blush that had stained his soft face was beginning to fade, and his dark eyes were fixed upon the stone of the corridor, rather than Saurfang. If he was ashamed of himself, or insulted by what he had seen, he gave no indication either way. Nothing apart from his silence and the gaze he no longer seemed able, or willing, to set upon his prisoner. Without a word, he turned on his heel and strode back into the darkness of the corridor, up the steps at the end and out of sight.

Saurfang realized then that it was likely the last time he would ever see the young king. His plan had worked. Yet, for reasons he did not care to examine, he found himself unsettled by the thought. As though he had lost something, destroyed something, and only now understood the truth of that mistake.

  
The next day, Saurfang sat in his cell, crouched on his haunches along the far wall. He listened to the steady _drip-drip_ of the water that leaked through the stones, losing himself in the sound, contemplating that he was, at last, truly alone. Forgotten in this quiet, dark corner of Azeroth.

And then he heard the footsteps approaching his cell. At first he thought it must be the guards, come to punish him for daring to insult their king. He imagined Anduin Wrynn, his blue eyes brimming with tears as he told the old wolf of the horror he had witnessed in the depths of the Stockade. How Saurfang had sullied his honor.

He did not expect to look up and find that it was the young king himself who had come to his cell. Returning once more, as he always did. Drawn by some strange fascination he had never voiced.

Or that this time when he came, he would have the keys.


End file.
